David Brin - Existence

“Okay, so then why did the migration turn around, sloshing back north again?”

“You mean, reasons other than the kudzu?… Or the flooded coast? Or when the Mississippi changed course, leaving river cities without a river? Or the breakup of Texas? Or the Big Soggy Decade? Or…”

Slawek might have continued listing more bad-luck reasons for the steady depopulation of the American Southeast-only right then he realized it might be unwise. The encampment that stood in front of them now was a tent-canopy wide enough to hold five families, stretching between two whole aisles of the Silverdome mezzanine and cantilevered over the balcony edge by a good five meters or so. The pixelcloth motif of a banner, with an X-shaped, starry cross, waved in a simulated breeze above the entrance.

Half a dozen men lounged along the platform’s forward edge, perched overlooking the old gridiron pitch. Several of them sat cross-legged and very still, wearing completely blank expressions, but the nearest pair-(Slawek sniffed that they were smoking barely legal cannaweed)-glared at the doctor and his assistant. They had specs on, so it would have been no problem to overhear Slawek’s most recent words.

He cursed himself for being inattentive of his surroundings. These redders were the toughest bunch under the dome.

While he smiled at them with his best friendly idiot grin, Slawek did a quick-scan, then subvocalized a message to Dr. Betsby. “Two men are on sick list. But three others” -he marked them- “haven’t showed up for work assignment in several days.”

If the physician got Slawek’s overlay message, he showed no overt sign. Instead, Betsby asked the nearest big fellow to get up and lift the fabric barrier for inspection. It was high on the List of Rulesand everyone complied, if they wanted to qualify for the big prize-a reclam settlement in Detroit or Pontiac. Still, some groups resented the weekly intrusion.

This time the response was especially sullen. As the eastern fabric-barrier rolled upward, no one moved to damp down the noise and garish images pouring from two of the opposite tent walls. Dr. Betsby shrugged and commenced scanning for health and hygiene concerns.

Lacking anything better to do, Slawek took a closer look at the vivid scenario that was unfolding, across the pixelated-cloth screens. Clearly it was a game-one that called for extensive teamwork and exertion. He saw a dozen or so people in gray senso-suits, ducking and waving realistic looking guns in the cramped area between the vid walls. Of course the weapons weren’t real-alarms would go off. But the simulated “rifles” barked and flashed realistically as blue-coated soldiers toppled onscreen, with satisfying howls and graphic grue. Slawek stared, amazed by a coincidence. The battle scene came straight from the 1860s war he was studying in school! Only this simulation was more gruesome and graphic than The Road to Appomattox.

A Rebel in Time,identified his scrolling spec-caption. Story Premise: The player-character steals an experimental time machine from a U.S. research lab and goes back to 1860 with plans to manufacture simple “sten” submachine guns for the Confederacy and assist General Nathan Bedford Forest in destroying…

Slawek blinked away the caption. The figures ducking and shooting in the foreground weren’t just slacking off and avoiding work. A lot of refugees do game-mining to earn cash -playing to earn points and virtual possessions, like armor and magic swords that could then be sold for real money to rich players in the Orient. One could argue it was income-generating labor.

Still, this particular fantasy offended Slawek. He loved America, and disliked the trends that were breaking it apart.

Sensing aural curiosity, his specs resumed commentary. Identifying background music-“Bad Attitude” by Steinman and Meatloaf…

I’ve got to take my specs in for a tune-up, Slawek thought, wiping the commentary again and down-cranking sensitivity.

Of course, battle games were registered addictions. But there were so many different ways to excite the craving centers in a human brain, who could track them all ? Take the “dazers” who sat, cross-legged, on the nearby plywood platform, using biofeedback spectacles to enter a state of druglike bliss.

That was where Dr. Betsby turned next, when he finished his interior scan, stepping onto the platform. Slawek followed, though the sheer drop-off made him nervous. Betsby bent over in front of one of the men, who stared vacantly with a thin trail of drool hanging from a corner of his mouth.

“Jonathan?” Betsby snapped his fingers. The fellow’s bare shoulders bore bioluminescent tattoos- pixie-skin displays that throbbed with ever-changing patterns, like an octopus or cuttlefish.

But Jonathan didn’t answer. Not while his specs flashed brainwave-tuned images, guiding him to a plateau that used to be achievable only after years of prayer and training… or with illegal substances. Buddhists and transcendentalists called this “cheating” and old-time narcotics cartels pushed to make dazing illegal, as they lost market share to programs like Cogito or LightLord .

“Leave him be,” said a fellow with reddish hair and muttonchop sideburns. His high-of-choice was simpler, a bubble-bottle of frothy Motor City Lager. “Jonathan don’t react well to interruptions.”

“All the more reason to intervene, Henry James Lee,” Betsby said, leaning closer to the dazer. “Jonathan Cain! You know the rules. No meditation during daylight hours. How long since you took care of bodily needs? What you’re doing is both irresponsible and dangerous.”

The doctor reached for Jonathan’s pair of Mesh spectacles, moving to break the trance.

“I tole you to leave off him, you gaijin-lovin’, egghead bastard!” The second man snarled, moving closer…

… and now, suddenly, Slawek caught a glint in Henry James Lee’s other hand, the one not holding a beer bottle. His specs zoomed-

“Knife!” Slawek started forward and things happened fast. As he dived between Jonathan and the doc, aiming to throw a block against the blade, he brushed Jonathan’s knee-and the dazer suddenly yelled. Spasming, arms, and legs lashed out. One foot struck Slawek’s thigh hard, slamming him into Betsby, who windmilled, struggling for balance.

“Doc!”

Slawek shouted, spinning and reaching for Betsby. He managed to catch a sleeve as the physician teetered. No help was coming from Henry James Lee, but if Slawek could just manage to hold on to the strip of fabric…

… only then Jonathan let out another thrashing, reflex kick, catching Slawek behind the knee, toppling him farther.

The physician teetered, feet scrambling at the brink, as Betsby’s weight hauled Slawek after him. In seconds, the doctor’s expression shifted from panic to realization. With sudden strength that surprised Slawek, he tore the boy’s hand off his sleeve and gave it a hard shove , throwing Slawek back just enough to halt on his knees, wavering right at the ledge. Even so, his momentum carried forward… more… more…

Now Henry James Lee acted-a strong, callused hand clamped Slawek’s collar, yanking him back.

“Let go!” he screamed, swatting at the hand. Heart pounding, clenching the plywood with white-hard strength that made the boards crack, Slawek prayed rapidly, both in the virtual world and this one, as he made himself lean over again, to look down toward seating section 116.

It’s not so high. A person who landed right could get off with a broken leg-

Flowing tears might have blurred the full impact of what lay down there. But the specs detected impaired vision and compensated, magnifying, clarifying, till he sobbed and closed both eyelids tightly shut.